


Eutony

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: The Sundered Oath [6]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 12:58:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17162399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: Most people who know her would probably be surprised that Sabela meditates.





	Eutony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Star_Miya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Miya/gifts), [rannadylin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rannadylin/gifts).



> (From the heavenly words prompts list on tumblr:  
>  _ **Eutony** : (n.) the pleasantness of a word’s sound_)

Most people who know her would probably be surprised that Sabela meditates. Oh, she can be silent and secretive, but most people associate her with songs and witty words and movement – and it is true that her mind is often restless, looking for new pursuits. But everyone needs to cleanse their thoughts once in a while, to refocus themselves, and that is why she takes such meticulous care of her spiritual life. Prayers are a given, as they are for any faithful Woedican, or any believer at all. Her meditations, though, probably vary from the common definition, even if is different for everyone.

Sabela meditates on sounds – on passages, melodies. Phrases, words. Names. Like hers – elegant and sophisticated, with rich Vailian notes. Clear, strong; a bell ringing in its core. Syllables put together to be spoken aloud without fear or false modesty, to be sung proudly. A good name for a noble lady, for a ruler.

Her keep’s name – a title, maybe, after all those years; yes, almost – is very appropriate, too. Caed Nua. A reflection of an on the past, the shadows of history, depth like ages. Sturdy and hard like the stone itself, unyielding like the soul that brings life to it. Soft like ash and dust and crumpled paper falling apart at the smallest touch.

The smallest things can be the most important. Most people do not hear those nuances like she does; perhaps even some chanters do not notice that. She does with sounds what ciphers do with minds and Watchers with souls – being a chanter and a Watcher, she would know – she can see their heart, their _souls_. Their true colours and meanings.

And names, like souls, come in all variations. Weak or ill-fitting. Average. Strong. Perfectly matching the bearer.

And then there is Thaos. The keeper of mysteries, with a name meant to be spoken in a hushed voice, quieter than a whisper. Like a secret, kept in silence and never meant to be turned into ink and parchment. A breath, so easy to forget. Impossible to live without; Sabela understands the workings of the world and she can see that, can comprehend what is necessary.

A breath, a gust of wind. More suited for a ghost than a man of flesh and blood. And bone – yes, that fits; the creak of old bones ground beneath the sole of a boot. The scrape of a rusty key. The barely-audible grind of stone door being moved by ancient machinery. The hum of spinning adra and copper.

Ah, other things, too. The whisper of fabric against skin. An exhale, blowing out a candle like his thoughts can extinguish minds. Life in death. Death in life. He is never truly alive, even when he is with her – never truly _here_ , his soul always beside Woedica.

Never truly dead, too, not for long. His name; the sound of walking across a carpet of ash – is that why? Did he die, back then? Is that why he can no longer fully live? And is that in turn why he can never really die?

A quiet sigh, a silent smile. The sound of hair brushing across the surface of a mask. He only takes it off when she cannot see or hear; it took her years to understand that. To realize that no matter how many times she will whisper his name, it will never be hers; an echo of a perfect sound, that is all she can have.

Before meeting him – again, in Dyrwood – Sabela never thought she would stoop so low and accept so little. She is not content, she is not satisfied – but she would rather have that than nothing at all. A sounds once spoken is etched into memory forever, even if sometimes it cannot be remembered.

The quiet crack of a strained soul when he takes the mask off, and she cannot see or hear but she can _touch_. Not his mind, though he occasionally lets his thoughts brush hers; not his soul, because even a Watcher is not powerful enough – not when he is alive, at least. Nothing but flesh and blood – the line of his lips against her mouth; the murmur of his pulse underneath her fingertips.

Years ago, she wanted him to be a refrain in her song – a few stanzas – an entire ballad, even. But now she knows this cannot be. He is, and will always remain, just a whisper. The quiet whisper in her ear that compels her to sing.


End file.
